Chapter 6: The Official Account
The next morning, Luca called Eleanor Price before the rest of us had finished breakfast.
I stood near the kitchen doorway with a tray in my hands, trying not to listen. Teresa sat at the table, both hands around a mug of tea she hadn’t yet lifted. She had slept in her own room, but the shadows beneath her eyes made it clear that staying home hadn’t made the night easy.
Luca paced beside the windows, speaking in a low voice.
“I’m not asking you to interpret the letter,” he said. “I’m asking you to find out where Dad’s medical records are kept and what I need to do to request them.”
He listened.
“Then start there. I want the original record, not someone’s summary.”
When he ended the call, he looked over at Teresa.
“The doctor who treated Dad is still in Chicago. He retired, but Eleanor knows how to reach him. She says his office may still have archived records.”
Teresa stared into her tea.
“Do you want to speak with him?” Luca asked. “You don’t have to.”
For a moment, she seemed to shrink into her chair. Then she set down the mug.
“I want to know what he remembers,” she said. “But I want Hannah with me.”
“You can have Hannah with you,” Luca said.
He glanced in my direction—not as an order, but as a question.
I set the tray down.
“I’ll go with her.”
Luca nodded. “Then we’ll go together.”
The doctor’s former office was on the second floor of a brick medical building on the North Side. Eleanor had arranged the appointment, but she had also made one thing clear: Giovanni’s records could not tell us everything about his final hours. They could tell us what had been observed and documented, not what happened in the room when no one else was there.
On the drive, Teresa sat beside me in the back seat. She watched the Chicago streets pass through the window, her hands resting in her lap.
“Are you frightened?” I asked softly.
“I’m afraid of remembering,” she said. Then she turned her face toward me. “And I’m afraid of what happens if I don’t.”
I didn’t tell her that either answer was wrong. I only reached for her hand.
At the office, Dr. Samuel Rosen met us in a small consultation room lined with books. He was a thin, silver-haired man with careful eyes. He greeted Teresa by name and waited for her to sit before offering his hand.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “Even after four years, I know that doesn’t make the loss smaller.”
“Thank you,” Teresa replied.
He looked to Luca. “Ms. Price said you’d like to discuss your father’s records. I can speak with you about what they contain, but only with your mother’s permission.”
“I give permission,” Teresa said. Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. “I want to hear it myself.”
Dr. Rosen opened a folder he had brought from an adjoining records room. Luca didn’t move closer. He let Teresa choose whether to look at the papers.
The doctor turned a page.
“Your father experienced a sudden collapse,” he said. “The chart describes a fatal cardiac event. The information recorded at the time was consistent with a natural death.”
Luca’s jaw tightened. “Was there anything suggesting someone harmed him?”
“No,” Dr. Rosen said. “Nothing in my examination or the records raised that concern. I saw no signs of physical injury, and there was no medical evidence then that suggested foul play.”
“Was an autopsy done?” Luca asked.
“Not to my knowledge. I can only speak to the records I kept and the care I provided. Based on what I saw, there was no reason at the time to suspect an assault.”
Teresa’s fingers tightened around the edge of her purse.
“So he was sick?” she asked.
“His heart failed suddenly,” Dr. Rosen said gently. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he knew it was about to happen. Some cardiac events come with warning signs. Others don’t.”
“Did he say anything to you before it happened?” Luca asked.
“No. I wasn’t there when he collapsed. I was called after.” The doctor looked at Teresa. “You were with him when I arrived.”
Teresa’s eyes lowered.
“That’s what I remember,” she whispered. “I was with him.”
The words seemed to cost her. Luca reached toward her, then stopped before touching her arm.
“Mom, you don’t need to force yourself.”
“I’m not.” She drew in a measured breath. “I need to know whether I’m remembering it right.”
Dr. Rosen closed the folder halfway, giving her a moment.
“Grief can make memories feel uncertain,” he said. “That doesn’t mean your memory is false. But I wouldn’t ask you to settle anything today.”
His kindness did more for Teresa than a dozen reassurances from the rest of us. Her shoulders lowered a fraction.
Luca kept his voice controlled.
“Can the records establish when Dad collapsed?”
“Not precisely. The chart records when I was called and when I arrived. It also includes what your mother told me when I saw her.”
“What did she tell you?”
Dr. Rosen glanced at Teresa before answering.
“I’d rather she decide whether she wants to hear that.”
Teresa swallowed. “Tell me.”
The doctor studied her face, then nodded.
“She was upset and exhausted. I didn’t press her for details. But I remember her asking whether help had come too late.”
The sentence landed between us. Teresa closed her eyes.
Luca sat beside her, leaving enough space that she could decide whether to lean toward him.
“Mom?”
“I remember the ambulance,” she said. “I remember your father’s room. I remember being told to sit down.” Her eyes opened, unfocused for a second. “I don’t remember what I said to the doctor.”
“That’s all right,” I told her.
Dr. Rosen gave her time before speaking again.
“Teresa, is there anything from that night that you want to ask me?”
She stared at the papers, but the lines on the page seemed to mean nothing to her.
“Did I say he’d been alone?”
“No,” he replied. “Not in the records I have.”
“Did I say someone was there?”
“I don’t see that written down either.”
The answer left the room heavier, not lighter. The records supported a natural cardiac death. They didn’t explain why Teresa feared she had been warned to stay silent, or what Michael had done after his argument with Giovanni.
On the way out, Dr. Rosen asked if Teresa wanted to take a copy of the relevant pages.
“I would,” she said.
Luca thanked him, but didn’t ask the doctor to draw conclusions the records couldn’t support. He folded the copies into a plain envelope and handed them to Teresa.
She held it against her coat.
“He died of his heart,” she said quietly, as if testing the words.
“That’s what the records support,” Dr. Rosen replied. “I don’t want to claim more than I can know.”
“I understand.”
Outside, Luca paused beside the car.
“We have a documented cause of death,” he said. “We still don’t have the full timeline.”
Teresa looked down the block. “I thought I did.”
A dark sedan pulled up to the curb behind us.
Michael stepped out before the driver could open his door. His expression was composed, but his eyes went straight to the envelope in Teresa’s hands.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Dad’s medical record,” Luca said.
Michael’s composure cracked. “You went digging through his records?”
“We asked the doctor what he documented.”
“Why?” Michael demanded. “The letter already told you what Dad wanted. He wanted to end the business. He wanted his accounts reviewed. Why are you reopening the night he died?”
The way he said it made Teresa flinch.
Luca noticed.
“Because the story we were given isn’t complete,” he said.
“Dad had a heart attack. Mom was there. The doctor confirmed it. What else do you expect to find?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Michael stepped closer, his voice sharpening. “Maybe you should stop before you turn a painful night into an excuse to accuse your own brother.”
Luca’s face went still.
“No one accused you.”
“You’re acting like I need to defend myself.”
“I’m asking questions. If that makes you uncomfortable, you should ask yourself why.”
Michael looked from Luca to Teresa, then to me. His gaze lingered on the envelope.
“I’m trying to protect this family,” he said.
Teresa drew the envelope closer to her chest.
“From the truth?” she asked.
For one brief second, Michael had no answer. Then he turned toward his car.
“Don’t make this worse than it already is.”
He got in and left.
On the drive back, Teresa didn’t speak. Luca sat in the front passenger seat with the doctor’s notes on his knee, reading them again as though a different answer might appear between the lines.
Before we reached the mansion, Luca’s phone rang. Dr. Rosen’s name appeared on the screen.
Luca answered and put him on speaker.
“Mr. Moretti,” the doctor said, “I’ve been thinking about something Teresa said when I treated your father. I didn’t include it in my notes because, at the time, I believed it was only a fragment from a traumatic night.”
Teresa gripped my hand.
“What did I say?” she asked.
May you like
Dr. Rosen paused.
“You told me someone had just left the house before you called for help.”
